The Lady with the Dog and Other Stories eBook

“Everything there is over for me. You know,
I could not refrain from writing a letter. Here
is the answer.”

On the sheet which she gave there was written in Orlov’s
hand:

“I am not going to justify myself. But
you must own that it was your mistake, not mine.
I wish you happiness, and beg you to make haste and
forget.

“Yours sincerely,

“G. O.

“P. S.—­I am sending on your
things.”

The trunks and baskets despatched by Orlov were standing
in the passage, and my poor little portmanteau was
there beside them.

“So . . .” Zinaida Fyodorovna began,
but she did not finish.

We were silent. She took the note and held it
for a couple of minutes before her eyes, and during
that time her face wore the same haughty, contemptuous,
proud, and harsh expression as the day before at the
beginning of our explanation; tears came into her eyes—­not
timid, bitter tears, but proud, angry tears.

“Listen,” she said, getting up abruptly
and moving away to the window that I might not see
her face. “I have made up my mind to go
abroad with you tomorrow.”

“I am very glad. I am ready to go to-day.”

“Accept me as a recruit. Have you read
Balzac?” she asked suddenly, turning round.
“Have you? At the end of his novel ‘Pere
Goriot’ the hero looks down upon Paris from
the top of a hill and threatens the town: ‘Now
we shall settle our account,’ and after this
he begins a new life. So when I look out of the
train window at Petersburg for the last time, I shall
say, ‘Now we shall settle our account!’”

Saying this, she smiled at her jest, and for some
reason shuddered all over.

XV

At Venice I had an attack of pleurisy. Probably
I had caught cold in the evening when we were rowing
from the station to the Hotel Bauer. I had to
take to my bed and stay there for a fortnight.
Every morning while I was ill Zinaida Fyodorovna came
from her room to drink coffee with me, and afterwards
read aloud to me French and Russian books, of which
we had bought a number at Vienna. These books
were either long, long familiar to me or else had no
interest for me, but I had the sound of a sweet, kind
voice beside me, so that the meaning of all of them
was summed up for me in the one thing—­I
was not alone. She would go out for a walk, come
back in her light grey dress, her light straw hat,
gay, warmed by the spring sun; and sitting by my bed,
bending low down over me, would tell me something
about Venice or read me those books—­and
I was happy.